His Eyes
by DuchessOfDementia
Summary: He would bet anything that her husband never made her feel this way. Never made her feel happy, or content...or loved. Rennac/L'Arachel, FE8


**Fire Emblem fanfiction, because there just isn't enough ;) This one is for one of my favorite couples, Rennac and L'Arachel. (Well, my FAVORITE couple, actually :D) and I'm rather surprised I haven't already written a little something for them. Takes place two years after the events of FE8. R&R, minions. **

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.**

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

She was waiting for him when he arrived. He muttered an apology for his lateness, not even bothering to give an excuse. He always had the same one.

"_I almost got caught on my way over."_

That they hadn't thought to employ the use of the escape tunnel running throughout Castle Rausten _ages_ ago irked him. It would have made things so much easier, in the beginning. Now, of course, it was a simple matter for him to creep through the spacious underground system and make his way to her chamber, appearing through a trap door usually hidden under a rug. He had always been thankful that she and her husband slept in separate rooms, and tonight was no exception.

Her _husband_. He felt sick when his thoughts touched on that topic. He shook his head once as she rose to meet him. She was wearing that sheer negligee he liked so much. He wondered briefly if she'd ever worn it for anyone else. A certain moss-haired Frelian prick, for instance.

She buried her face in his chest and murmured, "I missed you."

Though he echoed her sentiments, he didn't say so out loud. He never said much during their meetings. Because he knew too well that if he got started saying things, he wouldn't be able to stop.

Sure, she _missed_ him. He figured that, since she'd asked him in a low whisper if he would come to see her that night while they were in the courtyard previously that day. But he wanted—_needed_—so much more than the assurance that she'd _missed_ him. A lot of people missed intimacy, and since she certainly wasn't getting a lot of it from her ungrateful husband, it was only natural that she would go seeking it elsewhere.

Her fragile hands found his. She slipped her fingers into the negative space between his own. Brining her face out of his chest, she smiled gently at him. He loved it when she smiled. She almost never did anymore, and it consoled him to know that she only ever smiled around him nowadays.

She led him to her bed and pulled gently on his arms, guiding him to the empty space next to her. He obliged her, and fell down beside her with a sigh. She watched him curiously with her peridot eyes, studying his expression. Absently, he was rubbing circles on her hands, but his eyes stayed on her face.

It always felt surreal to him, being here, inside her room. The room itself was more fantastic and luxurious than any he'd ever seen. He felt so out of place here, in bed with a noblewoman. The Pontifess of Rausten, no less.

His eyes fell to her hands, where he was still tracing patterns on her skin. He stiffened.

Her brow pulled together. "Rennac? What is it?"

He brought her hands up to her face. "Who did this to you?" he asked in a low hiss, gingerly prodding the purple bruises staining her wrists. She paled, looking away.

"It was _him_, wasn't it?"

She didn't answer immediately. Instead she withdrew her hands from his and bit her lip. "He doesn't like it when I…scratch him."

The statement confused him. He tried to piece together what she'd said. Why would she be scratching him, except when…?

As realization dawned on him, he felt nauseous. Rennac looked at her, his expression contorted with suppressed emotion.

"You slept with him." It wasn't a question.

She was quiet for a minute. "I had to," she said finally, in the smallest of voices. "It's been a year and a half, and I'm not with child yet."

Rennac sat up and clutched his stomach. He fought the visuals, but they came anyway. _His_ L'Arachel, lying under her bastard husband while he forced her wrists down onto the sheets.

He suddenly felt like vomiting.

She sat up, too, and touched a hand to his shoulder. He didn't look at her. He didn't want her to see his face.

"Please," she whispered hoarsely. "Please, _look_ at me."

He paused for a moment, but eventually turned around. He damned himself when he saw that there were tears making their way down the smooth planes of her beautiful face.

Taking her into his arms, he kissed her forehead. He wanted to say something comforting, but he couldn't think of anything. There really was no comfort he could give her, except the kind he'd already given her so many times before. He couldn't tell her everything would be alright, because tomorrow she would still be married to _him_. They couldn't run away together, because she had a country to look after and honestly, Rennac wasn't _that_ selfish.

So he just stroked her hair and let her cry.

Everything would be so much easier if she hated her husband like Rennac hated him. But she was so desperate to be a good wife and a good Queen that she had forced herself to love her spouse. The blood in Rennac's head pounded furiously whenever he saw her following her bastard husband around the Castle, employing her best attempts at affection to coax him into sleeping with her. It was _disgusting_. That damned Frelian had the loveliest girl in Magvel as his wife and he never even looked at her.

Rennac wished he could tell her he loved her. He _wanted_ to. He had the feeling that she hadn't heard those three words since her Uncle died two years prior. He knew it wouldn't change much, but he just felt like it needed to be said. However, she'd made it clear a long time ago that neither of them were allowed to say anything of the sort.

"_It would only make this harder."_

Her crying eventually quieted and he realized with a jolt that she was undoing the ties of his tunic. He fought the urge to grab her hands. He knew she was only using him to relieve her grief and loneliness, but he also knew that as long as she wanted him here, he would always be within arm's length.

He let her finish undressing him completely because he knew from experience how simple it was to discard her negligee. And, sure enough, with one swift jerk of his forearms, it was drifting to the floor at the foot of the bed, forgotten.

He took a moment to admire her as he loomed over her form, holding himself up with his arms. The loose cord around his neck swung slowly like a pendulum, inches from her face. She watched him, breathless, as his eyes raked over her unblemished, flawless form.

He never thought she looked lovelier than when she was like this; when her face was alight with anticipation, when her hair was loose and fanned out like fields of emerald, when her pearly skin glowed with the moonlight that leaked through the curtains…

He dove unto her lips, first slow and tender, then growing more feverish as she pressed her soft hands to his cheeks and prodded at his lips with her tongue. He opened his mouth gratefully and released his own tongue into her.

He knew she liked it when he took his time, and he didn't mind it, either. He could only imagine how harsh and brief her husband must be with her. It comforted him to know that not only did her smile belong to him, but that he was twice the lover her husband was.

She soon began to make those pretty little noises he craved so much. She wasn't the appeasing type—she would only reward him with her whimpers if he _earned_ it. And so while he kissed her senseless, his left hand made its way down her stomach and her hip and drifted to her sex.

She gasped sharply upon realizing that he'd snuck his index finger inside of her. He smirked onto her lips and inserted a second digit. Reflexively, she bucked her hips; however, it only served to drive his fingers further inside of her.

He stroked her evenly while at the same time bending down to suck her neck. He was thankful she wore heavy robes most of the time, and also that her husband was unforgivably dense. If he or anyone else ever took the time to look closely at the skin of her neck, shoulders or inner thighs, they would have long ago noticed that the flesh was dotted with tiny bite marks that had certainly not been made by her husband.

She grabbed fistfuls of his hair and gnawed at her bottom lip until it bled. There was a fine line she had to walk when she was with Rennac; she knew how much he liked it when she made little pleased noises, but she also knew that she had to keep fairly quiet or risk their discovery.

It was easy, Rennac thought, during times like this, to forget. To forget she had a husband at all, or that he was a greedy knave unfit to even _look_ at her in a less than decent way. So easy to forget all the pain, and all the death, and all the grief, and immerse themselves in this fabricated union that, to the rest of the world, didn't exist at all.

She came in his hand and had to bury her face in the crook of his neck to muffle her cry. He reeled away so that he was looming over her again and he brought his sticky fingers to his lips, licking away her nectar.

She blushed.

It was hard to believe that, after everything they'd done together, she was still as shy as she had been their first night together.

He brought his face down to kiss her again. He wanted her to know that this wasn't just about the _physical_ things. So, _so_ desperately he wanted to tell her what it meant to him. More importantly, he wanted to know what it meant to _her_. Could she really just be using him to sate her loneliness? Was he still just a servant to her, always at her beck and call and ready to please her?

The direction his thoughts had taken abruptly disturbed him.

He broke their contact, his brow furrowed in thought. She blinked, her mesmerizing eyes glazed and dilated. It was easy, Rennac repeated in his mind, to believe that she loved him like he loved her, when she looked at him that way. He would bet anything that her _husband_ never made her feel this way. Never made her feel happy, or content, or _loved_.

She touched her hand to his forehead, smoothing the wrinkles there. He sat up, still troubled by his stormy thoughts.

"Please," she whispered, tugging gently at the cord around his neck to reclaim his attention, like a child would their parent's shirt. "What troubles you?"

_Everything_.

"Nothing."

He didn't want to see her face. Didn't want to see the emotionless look in her eyes as she let him touch her and pretended it was someone else. Didn't want to hear the inevitable cry of _"Innes!" _when she came.

"Liar," she purred, her breath wafting into his ear. He hadn't realized how close by she was.

He _was_. He _knew_ it, too. He was a liar every time he told her Innes was a good man, and that he'd eventually realize he loved her. He was a liar whenever he assured her that nothing would change between them. He was a liar when he told her he was content with their "arrangement."

He sighed wearily, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, resting her chin on his right shoulder. "Please, don't leave," she pleaded quietly, gently dragging her nails across his chest. The sensation wasn't unpleasant.

"I wouldn't," he said without thinking. She kissed his shoulder lovingly, and suddenly, her warm touch was gone as she fell back onto the bed, leaving him be. He heard her miserable sigh and finally turned to face her.

She was staring at a spot on the ceiling, somewhere above his head. Her eyes were glassy with tears, and she was hugging herself, hiding her chest—and hiding her heart.

It was true. He wouldn't—_couldn't_—leave her. She was so lonely, so mistreated. He would go on loving her until she didn't want him anymore. It didn't matter if that day was in a month, or a year, or twenty years; never, not for anything, would he abandon her.

He slunk back into his spot beside her and kissed her cheek affectionately. She touched his face and smiled softly. He wished that the smile would never go away.

And just like that, she was under him again, getting what she wanted. She always did, in the end.

Well, most of the time, anyway.

He resumed his work of kissing her, and the need in her soft whimpers and murmurs was searing. He wanted to take his time with her, but the lightening sky outside of the window was a sharp reminder of their dwindling moments together.

"Now," she pleaded, tugging urgently at his hair. She opened her legs helpfully, looking at him with those dazed eyes of hers. Her hand made its way down his abdomen and found his enlarged member. He cursed quietly as she rubbed him in exactly the right spot; the spot he'd shown her the first night he'd been inside of her bedroom.

He wound his hand around hers and gently tugged it away. "No time for that," he said between his teeth.

She smiled weakly. Shyly. It wasn't the same smile he remembered from those many years ago, but it was still a smile.

He had to align their bodies—difficult, since he was a head taller than her—before positioning himself in front of her opening. He was pleased to see that she was positively soaked with arousal. The sight of it made him lick his lips with anticipation. Then, abruptly, he rammed into her, and she had to put a fist to her mouth to stop from crying out.

And in that moment, it was just the two of them, lost in each other's bodies, everything a numbing and beautiful blur. All of that _marriage_ business was so far away; he was no longer an unworthy servant, and she was no longer someone else's wife. Here they were, man and woman, doing what comes naturally; giving in to what they wanted and ignoring what they didn't. And, as the gods were his witness, Rennac savored every moment.

He was no virgin when they'd met, those many years ago. He knew exactly how to seclude and how to seduce. Of course, he'd sworn to himself not to get involved with her when he first became her vassal. After all—sleeping with an employer? And a Princess, no less? Too messy.

But as time had went on, his resolve began to fall through his fingers, like beach sand. He'd steeled himself and recited all of her flaws in his head (a list comprised of only a few things) in his best attempts at ridding his brain of her face.

_She's selfish. _

_Annoying._

_Loud._

_Vain._

…

_Beautiful._

_Kind._

_Honest._

_Pure._

Pure.

There had been something about that notion that excited him. He'd never particularly liked virgins—he thought them more prone to emotional attachment than other girls—but the fact that she had been utterly inexperienced with men fascinated him.

Soon, it became impossible to ignore. He'd tried his hardest to resist her (albeit, Rennac never really put much effort into _anything_), but it had become too much.

The wordless glances that held more meaning than they should. The inventing of excuses to be alone with her. The "accidental" brushing of his hand against her thigh when they walked past each other.

And finally, his resolve had snapped. The night before they ventured into Darkling Woods, they had been quite alone on a riverbank, and she had been confiding in him.

"_I'm…actually afraid to die," _she'd said. He remembered how she'd gnawed her lower lip, much like she was doing right now as she tried not to make any noise.

"_That's natural," _he'd assured her coolly.

And somehow, on that night, the conversation drifted from casual talk of death (if there was such a thing) to more probing questions about plans for the future. She'd told him about her wedding fantasy, and her dreams of happy married life. When she'd asked him about his own plans for the future, he'd simply replied that he hadn't taken time to think about it.

And then—he remembered it dimly—she'd shyly told him that she thought he was a wonderful dancer. It had seemed rather out-of-the-blue, but appreciated nonetheless.

"_I like it when you touch me," _she'd said, clearly without thinking.

Then, stiffening and looking horrified, she'd blushed prettily and began sputtering about how she hadn't meant it "that way." But it was too late—her little Freudian slip had sent him over the edge, and he'd silenced her with his mouth.

And that had been the beginning of their little affair. They never slept together, though, because quite honestly, he respected her too much—in addition, he knew good and well that if she were to ever conceive a child while still unmarried and presumably a virgin, all of Rausten would be in an uproar, and her reputation soiled. And not to mention, he would be in some deep trouble.

Six months after the war, her Uncle had given her the wonderful news that she was to marry Innes, Prince of Frelia. _Fantastic_.

The night before her wedding, he'd come to visit her in her room. It had been excruciatingly difficult—he'd actually had to employ his skills as a rogue to sneak inside unnoticed. She'd been crying hysterically, blubbering about how she didn't love her fiancé and wished she were dead. Overdramatic, perhaps, but not exceedingly so.

That night, the night before her wedding, she asked him to take her virginity. He'd been stunned, and he had in return asked her to repeat the question.

"_I don't love him. Please—I want you to be my first."_ It had seemed like some sort of wonderful dream—not at all like the cruelties of reality. However, he'd complied, and crawled into bed with her.

He was torn back to the present when he felt her nails score his back. He was again reminded of her bastard husband's idiocy—the insignificant amount of pain her scratches caused was a small price to pay for the pleasure that the rest of her provided.

He saw the way tears welled up in her eyes as she bit her lip. Realizing the hurt she was inflicting on herself, he bent down and kissed her to alleviate her pain and at the same time effectively silence her gratified moans.

He could feel the ecstasy climbing, building, reaching its peak. However, he kept control over himself and continued to thrust into her tight, slick tunnel.

_Heaven_. She _was_ heaven. So warm. So pale. So soft.

_So beautiful_.

She gave a strangled gasp as her body hummed with release, her sex flooding with juices and her walls clamping down around his member. Her orgasm fed his own, and he cursed as he spasmed inside of her, exploding with all of his love and desire and want and _need _for her that could only be expressed in this way.

He collapsed on top of her, panting heavily. She too, was out of breath. He was heavy, a full six feet and then some of lean muscle, but she wouldn't have moved him for the world.

They lay there, in silence, for many moments. Then, she turned into his face, smiling softly. Her swollen pink lips parted, and from them came three words that changed everything.

"I love you."

He was quiet and very still for many moments. Then,

"I love you, too."

Contentedly, she pressed her forehead to his and kissed him. It wasn't a needy kiss, or a lustful kiss—it was gentle. Loving.

And Rennac suddenly thought that he was quite alright with going to hell, having already experienced heaven.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Her body glowed with perspiration as she cried out in sharp pain, clutching her maidservant's hand.

"Fantastic! Just a few more shoves…the baby's almost here, your Majesty!"

She screamed again, her body shuddering violently with exertion.

And suddenly, the tinny cry of a child pierced the air. Her expression immediately changed from one of contorted pain to one of immeasurable wonder.

The wet nurse produced a baby from the edge of the bed and wiped its face with a wet cloth. The child was positively screaming, but otherwise, beautiful.

"What is it?" The breathless Queen asked. The wet nurse took a moment to peek under the child's blanket.

"A boy," she said, looking equally delighted. The new mother's peridot eyes widened with elation as she reached for her child. Her maidservant scurried out of the room and returned shortly with Innes. For once, the Prince's expression was not stony and cold. It was considerably softer, and even…happy.

"A boy. _My_ boy," the Queen cooed at the child's cherubic face.

Rennac watched the scene from the corner of the room, not knowing how to feel. A child. A blessing, wasn't it? It was difficult to think otherwise when looking at L'Arachel's expression. The joy that leapt into her eyes when she saw the infant's face…

But Rennac couldn't help but stand in the corner and seethe. A child—and a male child, no less—only cemented the Frelian's hold on her. He knew it was bitter and incredibly selfish of him to feel such a way, but he could not help it. The thought of the tainted seed of her bastard husband taking root in her womb…it sickened him.

The Frelian's happiness was only fleeting. A maidservant tapped him on the shoulder and informed him that one of his mistresses, a rather plain, green-haired Frelian girl—Valerie, was it?—had just arrived at the Castle. And he was gone, in a matter of seconds.

Rennac's rage pulsed through him. She had just had the bastard's _son_ and he didn't have the good graces to stick around. The whole of it sickened him.

He realised absently that now that the maidservants and nurses had left the room, it was just him, her, and her new son left.

"Classy," Rennac said acridly, staring—_hard_—at the door the Prince had just exited through. "I'll never understand why you married him. So, what are you going to name the baby?"

Rennac paused, seething again.

"Or will you let the _father_ decide?"

He saw her smile serenely and look at him in a way he thought most unfit for the seriousness of the conversation.

"If you insist," she said sweetly, rocking the baby back and forth in her arms. "What do you want to name it, then?"

Rennac paused, confused. He looked at her quizzically, and she beckoned for him to come forward.

He watched, from a few feet away, as her son opened his eyes.

His deep, brown eyes.

Eyes that did not belong to Innes of Frelia.

Rennac abruptly found it difficult to breathe. He looked at her, his mouth hanging open like someone had just slapped him quite hard.

"He isn't…he's…_mine_?" he sputtered, uncomprehending. She smiled gently, sparing one hand to stroke Rennac's face while the other one supported the infant's head.

"Yes, he's yours," she said in a peaceful voice. "If either you or my husband had stopped to do the math in your heads, you would have realised long ago that there is no way he could be Innes'."

Rennac brushed his calloused thumb against the baby's—_his_ baby's—forehead. The child responded with a happy, toothless grin.

It was as though his entire existence was in itself a dramatic irony, Rennac thought absently as he marveled at the way the child had his lips, her nose, his jaw, and her ears. Ironic that he never wanted to fall in love until he already was. Ironic that he never wanted a child until he had one. And ironic that in this moment, it seemed that no matter who she was married to, or how forbidden their union was, that it had still been possible—and the proof was currently dozing off in L'Arachel's pale arms.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**So yeah, I feel like ending it here. And geez…its 11:32pm, and I've been writing this for several hours. May not seem that way, but yeah, it takes me quite a while to write a story that isn't of crap quality. Well, I bid you adieu, readers! Don't forget to drop me a review on your way out! (Oh yes—I'd like some ideas for future FE stories! Feel free to make some requests!)**


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